


Don't Let Go the Coat

by 222Ravens



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcoholism, M/M, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/222Ravens/pseuds/222Ravens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But they'd switched cars seventeen times. </p><p>Dean knows this because he's unloaded the trunk himself every goddamn time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Let Go the Coat

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Who song of the same name. I actually found the title after I wrote this fic, but wow, this song fits it insanely well:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LvWwtfKiGUk

He'd say he's lost track of how many times they've switched cars. If anyone asked him. Even if they figured out he was lying, if they called his bluff… Well, he'd grin that smile that never quite reaches his eyes and make a joke about each time being a reminder of how much he missed his Baby. 

 

Because he did miss it, no denying that one. Damn, that car was the closest thing they had to a home left, and they'd lost it.  Couse, they'd get it back. The Impala wasn't gone forever. As long as the Leviathans were after them, though... It was better that they didn't.

 

But they'd switched cars seventeen times. Dean knows this because he's unloaded the trunk himself _every_ goddamn time. 

 

It always takes a little while, with all the crap they've got. Right at the start, though, he'll send Sam to go get food, or check the motel to make sure they haven't forgotten anything, or settle the bill, or a bunch of other excuses that he's pretty sure his brother sees right through, but he doesn't really care either way.

 

By the ninth time, they've lost Bobby, and it's so damn hard to find anything that he actually cares about. But he still doesn't want Sam around when he moves the first item over. And he still always moves it first. If they have to run, they can leave the guns behind, and the ammo, and the books and the clothes, because they could replace any of that other shit.

 

By the eleventh time or so, he stopped even pretending that he won't stop, for just a second. Gripping that stupid, stupid bit of fabric and thread and buttons in his hands, trying to ignore the rips and tears and the bloodstains. That he won't force himself to look at it. To remember _exactly_ what happens when there's someone who makes the damn fool mistake of getting too close to him.

 

They get burnt, soulless, stabbed in the back, shot in the head, ganked by angels, or die in an explosion. They get ripped apart by vampires, possessed, have their memories wiped, or do a deal with demon, make the mistake of thinking they're God and die in some miserable shithole of a reservoir with nothing left over but a coat.

 

And every time, he thinks about just leaving it there, or throwing it out.

 

Instead he just drops it in the next trunk.

 

He's got a brother, and he's got a coat, and in the world wide world, right then? That was about it. _That_ … That's why he can't leave behind, because it and Sam are the only things he's got left. 

 

But Dean can't think like that. He can't think about what he should have said to him. Or done. And he can't think of the fact that he's falling apart, hanging on with about half a bloody fingernail, and he's losing Sam to madness, little by little, and pretty soon all he'll have is a coat, a flask, and a whole mess of guilt and fuck ups.

 

Because there isn't anything he can do that would fix it, fix it right this time. Because that's his life in a nutshell, and he's pretty sure that even with all made it through at the cost of everybody else, 

 

So instead, Dean takes another drink, because hey, it's not like he's planning on living long enough to worry about his liver, anyway. And right, he's got Bobby's flask, too. Another memento of someone who died trying to save his sorry ass. The Impala, too, if he thought too much about it after the bottom of the flask and a couple glasses besides. Because, yup, Dad was dead because of him too. Fucking cheers.

 

And then? He ignores the thoughts in his head that tell him he needs to move past it, move on, gain closure, feels better, or whatever mumbo-jumbo feelings crap Sam would probably thrust on him if he ever made the mistake of mentioning it.

 

But he can't talk about it, shouldn't even be thinking about it.

 

Except he is thinking about it, so he chucks the coat into the trunk, drops something else on top of it, preferably something large and heavy. Then?

 

Then he lifts Bobby's flask, takes another drink, and promises himself he'll throw away the coat next time.


End file.
